


Just a Dream

by Lovefushsia



Series: Just A Dream [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mini-breaks disguised as case investigations, POV John Watson, Sleepy John, romantic stuff to which John is oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovefushsia/pseuds/Lovefushsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't help his growing feelings for his friend, he can't avoid them in his dreams.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Sherlock tries to show John there's more to him than just The Game. </p>
<p>Update: I did it! I finished a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John squirmed in his bed turning onto his back, the covers slipped and left his underwear-clad lower half exposed. His hand travelled straight to his cock, suddenly growing firm at the light touch of the duvet and the sleepy grasp of his hand. He groaned and slid his other hand inside his pants, wrapping his fingers around his cock and pulling up, rolling his fingers back over the head and sighing as his groin tightened.

His hand sped up and the other pushed at his inner thigh, shoving his own legs apart and gripping at the damp skin there. He rolled a little, writhing as if beneath another’s body while his hand worked, and he came with a cry which woke him and his hand moved rapidly, wringing out the shuddering orgasm.

John opened his eyes, still gasping for breath. The dreamy images flooded through his mind as he lay there, running his sticky hand lightly back and forth over his slackening cock. Oh God, he’d been dreaming of Sherlock again. Sherlock’s lean frame lying atop his own body, slipping and gripping and... _no_ , no this had to stop. He had to stop this or he would lose his mind.

He ran his hands over his face before thinking about it and swore out loud as he felt the damp cum on his face. He was a mess.

“John." A voice from the doorway. Horrified, John slowly turned his head towards his friend. It was going to be one of those days.


	2. Chapter 2

John couldn’t find words so he just lay there, unmoving.

“Isn’t it about time to get up?” Sherlock asked. “We’ve a case waiting, you know.”

John sighed. Right of course. Even finding him like this Sherlock apparently had no clue as to what had just happened. John wondered idly if Sherlock ever touched himself. He supposed he must do, but when did he find the time? When did he relax enough to let himself go?

“John?” Sherlock said again.

“Uh, yeah?” John said, sounding a little croaky.

“You should probably clean up before you sit anywhere,” Sherlock told him, and with that he swept from the room, dressing gown flowing back through the doorway as John watched, frozen to the spot.

***

John did clean up before he set foot into the living room. He edged around the corner to peer into the kitchen when he couldn’t see Sherlock. His friend was standing by the kitchen table, scrubbing the surface with a cloth in a very uncharacteristic manner. “What, ah... what are you doing?” John said, hands behind his back and stepping gradually into the kitchen.

“I’m making sure there are no traces of blood on this table.”

“Don’t you normally leave that for Mrs Hudson?”

“I needed to focus, John.” He hadn’t looked up, it was as if thirty minutes ago hadn’t actually happened.

John hummed and wandered off towards his chair in the lounge where Sherlock had set a cup of tea. John sat down and pulled his laptop onto his knee. His dream had been playing out over and over and he couldn’t shake it. It was going to be chasing him all day he knew it. It didn’t help that this time Sherlock had apparently seen what John had been doing, or he’d understood anyway from the way John looked in his bed immediately afterwards. But he surely had no idea that John thought of _him_. Not like that. John had never said a word, had only denied any possible question of it whenever anyone asked. He couldn’t help it - he was not ready for these feelings. What had happened when he met Sherlock, that suddenly he was feeling things he never dreamed he would for another man?

Sherlock was special, he meant so much to John that he could hardly stand it on a daily basis, and now with another dream... he needed air.

He shoved the computer away, he’d not even turned it on, and he left his tea untouched. He didn’t say anything to Sherlock on his way out, just closed the door behind himself and tromped down the stairs. His feet led him naturally over to the cafe and he ordered coffee with only a couple of words. Telling himself to move on from his feelings was doing no good. He could talk himself around during the day but when he lay down at night his brain just gave it up.

He could deny it all he wanted to anyone and everyone who asked and he would continue to do so, despite Sherlock’s silence and even though he knew what they must look like together.

He thought of when they had first met, how different Sherlock was from his usual friends. Straight away on his blog his sister and friend had questioned him about moving in with a man he’d only just met. But John had been clear with himself and them that this was just an arrangement that would get him better integrated into the real world. Well, he’d been partially right, but he was hardly living in the real world right now, not with these fantasies constantly creeping over him.

And Sherlock was just scrubbing tables.

Sherlock. Bloody Sherlock. Why couldn’t he just flat out admit or deny (or at least talk about it) that he had no attraction for anyone, whatever their sex? But no he had to sit around in his sodding sexy silky dressing gown; leave the bathroom after a shower dripping and naked because he needed to go to his ‘mind palace’ and didn’t have time to get a towel.

He sat on a bench without looking around and sipped at his coffee.

“John, you know I made you a cup of tea?”

“ _Shit_...Sherlock what the hell are you doing?” He was right there beside him on the bench, just lounging against the seat, one arm draped across the back, one foot raised onto the other knee, overcoat draped perfectly around his lithe frame, scarf placed just so around his neck.

John’s coffee was mostly spilled over his jeans and he shook out his scalded hand as he glared at the man beside him.

“I wondered what could possibly be so urgent at 8am that you needed to rush away.”

“So you followed me?” John looked down shaking his head. “Sherlock you could just talk to me, why always the cloak and dagger with you?”

“What do you want to talk about John?” Sherlock asked, not even moving, just staring directly into John’s eyes with his own piercing blue gaze when John looked back at him.

For a moment John thought he might say something, but it passed almost instantly at the thought of Sherlock laughing at him or not saying anything back or maybe even disappearing. He couldn’t handle any of that and so he kept quiet. “Nothing,” he murmured.

“Right, ok then.” Sherlock was standing in a second, pulling up that collar and looking down at John impatiently.

“Really? That’s it?” John asked, looking up, conflicting his own thoughts by being suddenly angry.

Sherlock just cocked his head and looked at John with a frown. “You have nothing to say, I’m cold. And you look like you need another shower.”

Oh God. It was this exact problem that kept John having his dreams. What was he supposed to do? He got up and dropped the remains of his coffee into the bin. “Come on then,” he gestured to Sherlock. “Are you going to tell me about this case or do I have to guess?”

“Ah yes, the mystery of the burning trees,” Sherlock said, wrapping his coat tighter over his chest.

“Burning trees? In London?”

“No, on the south coast actually, but there have been a few separate cases.”

“So, who finds the fires? Are they in gardens? Spontaneous?”

“Yes. And no, parks usually, just like this one.”

“There are no trees here,” John pointed out, looking around them as they walked towards the gate. 

“Precisely.” John trailed along after him and felt a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He could do this. He could do this because he loved what they did – he loved being included for whatever reason in Sherlock’s games.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a little trip away together.

John did need to change his clothes when they got back home. He felt like the day was starting over again as he went into his bedroom and closed the door. He leaned back against it and closed his eyes, sighing loudly. _Ok, get it together, John_.

He stripped out of his jacket and soggy jeans, and thought about getting his robe before he walked out to the bathroom, but he didn’t. He opened the door and walked down the stairs in his pants, fresh jeans in hand. It didn’t matter anyway, well, unless Mrs Hudson suddenly appeared.

John could hear Sherlock chattering to himself in the lounge as he shut the bathroom door and turned on the shower. He was just stepping out of his pants when the door flew open and he whirled around to see Sherlock there, shirt open at the collar, running both hands through his hair.

“Hey, you could knock,” John cried, as he turned his lower half away from Sherlock’s gaze which had immediately drifted that way.

“I could knock. But I wanted to run this past you.” John hovered on the bath mat, not entirely convinced that he wasn’t dreaming again, and there was a standoff for a moment until Sherlock finally said, “Don’t mind me John,” and waved him towards the shower. John did mind, a lot actually, but he stepped over the side of the bath and under the warm spray.

Sherlock started talking and John just let his words wash over him along with the water as he soaped himself up and checked the scalded red patches on his legs. Occasionally he was able to interject to add a little thought to Sherlock’s stream of consciousness. When he was finished, Sherlock was still there, still talking and so John turned off the taps and peered around the curtain, clutching it to his wet body while he waited for a break to ask something.

The next time Sherlock paced towards him John caught his eye. “Um, towel, please?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said, and without looking he reached out and grabbed a towel and held it out for John. John reached and had to lean a little and nearly slipped out of the bath, but he made it with a sigh. Damn his modesty, he was irritating even himself now. He wrapped himself up and stepped out of the bath and Sherlock continued to pace as John got another towel for his hair.

“You smell nice,” Sherlock suddenly said, accusingly in the middle of a sentence.

“Do I?” John said, heart suddenly racing.

“Did you use my shampoo?” Sherlock asked him.

“Um... not that I remember, maybe,” John admitted, eyes widened in innocence.

“Hmm.” And Sherlock carried on where he’d left off.

After a while John was able to sidle out of the room, past Sherlock as he paced away from the door. He went back to his bedroom and pulled on jeans and a white t-shirt along with a cosy jumper, because Sherlock never liked the temperature high enough for John’s taste.

It turned out that Sherlock had mapped out every tree that had ‘spontaneously’ combusted within the last two weeks. He was forming a pattern in his mind, and on a map on the wall in the lounge. He was standing studying it when John came back into the room.

“So, where are we going?” John asked, as he stood beside Sherlock on the rug.

“Here,” Sherlock told him, pointing to the south coast of Dorset.

“Ok, both of us?”

“Yes, I think so, wouldn’t want to miss this one.”

It really didn’t sound like the kind of thing Sherlock would normally rush around the country for, but John wasn’t about to argue.

Sherlock drove them that afternoon to a little town in Dorset right on the cliff edge. So close in fact that John almost thought they were on the wrong road and that the land was going to end and plummet them onto the rocks below. But then Sherlock veered off to the right and pulled up outside the only lit building in a row of four.

They climbed out, John glad of the air since Sherlock had refused to stop at the last services, wanting to make sure they could check into their B&B. “You know, this is 2015 Sherlock, there are phones, we could have just called ahead.”

“Does it look like your phone will have any service out here?”

John took out his phone and sure enough the signal bar was way down. He huffed and tucked it away again. He followed Sherlock inside after looking around at the wild countryside. It really was beautiful down here, not somewhere he had spent a lot of time but he’d always meant to. He had never thought he’d be seeing so much of his own country with a ‘consulting detective’ who was now his closest friend. And he didn’t want to be anywhere but here.

That was until he set foot into the room behind Sherlock. “There’s only one bed.”

“Ah, yes, it’s all they had on short notice I’m afraid, I did ask for a twin.”

“Hmmm,” John said, unable to convey the pure horror of this new situation, even to himself.

“I’ll not need it anyway, there’s no need to worry.”

“Why not? I’ve seen you sleep. Sometimes.”

“That chair looks plenty comfortable,” Sherlock said simply.

John didn’t respond, just unpacked a few things from his bag and sat on the edge of the bed to test it out. Comfy. The small window under the eaves of this thatched cottage overlooked the garden and John went over to peer through. In the dim light he could clearly see a smart lawn but little else. “No trees,” he murmured. “Sherlock, is this one of the sites?”

“This is the place.”

John jumped as Sherlock’s voice sounded in his ear. He was directly beside John and John hadn’t even noticed - the man was a cat. John cleared his throat and took a breath.

“You see that corner over there,” Sherlock said, pointing through the leadlight window panes. John looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye before slowly following his finger. “That’s the stump of a three-hundred year old tree. Dead and burned. Literally.”

“So, do you want to get out there and take a look?” John asked quietly, watching as their mingling breath began to fog up the window. Sherlock murmured a yes, straightened up and John followed him, stretching a little to ease his back after the long car journey.

They went down the low-ceilinged staircase and into the hallway. Sherlock nodded to the back of the cottage and John followed as he led them to the back door, through a pretty little lounge with a log fire burning in the grate. One of John’s favourite things.

They emerged into the dark November chill of the back garden. The sun had fully set by now despite the early hour. John still struggled with the time change even after all this time back home. He trudged after Sherlock, wishing for a thicker coat as he hugged his arms around his thin black jacket. Sherlock turned up his collar and rubbed his hands together as he walked ahead down to the end of the garden.

They walked around the blackened tree stump for a while, finding nothing, seeing nothing unusual apart from the fact that the house and garden seemed perfectly secure and someone would have to have jumped over a high fence to bother to set light to this tree. Hmm, it took all sorts, he supposed. Sherlock didn’t say a lot, wanting to come back out in the daylight and take some details from the owners in the morning. It felt like snow was in the air and John suddenly had concerns about being snowed in inside this tiny place.

They got back inside, thoroughly chilled to the bone after only a few minutes, and the owner was there by the door asking if they would like dinner. John actually was pretty hungry, not unusual. So they took a table in the tiny restaurant of the B&B and John ate egg and chips while Sherlock watched him and drank some tea. Then they went back upstairs.

John got ready for bed in the little bathroom, half expecting a visit from his friend, and not even sure that he minded anymore. He sat down on the bed, leaning back against the headrest and read the book he’d brought with him, while Sherlock worked across the room on his laptop at the tiny desk.

After a couple of pages John cosied down a bit in the bed, and the next thing he was aware of was darkness and a warm body lying beside him. He looked to his left and very determinedly didn’t move a muscle. Sherlock lay on his back, on top of the covers, eyes closed, breathing gently. He was very close. John still didn’t dare move and so he closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the awful pull he was feeling to wrap his arms around his friend and hold on to him. He thought instead of the many and varied breakfast items he could choose from in the morning. He only hoped if he did drop off again that he wouldn’t reach for Sherlock in his sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Next morning, John watched Sherlock from the bedroom window as he went back into the garden. It had been a restless night and John was tired. He thought only of Sherlock as he showered, huffing to himself as he lowered the shower head from Sherlock’s earlier, taller position. Sherlock had been up and out of the bed before John had woken and he was grateful for that at least. It did make him sad that if he hadn’t woken in the middle of the night he would never have known the comfort, albeit somewhat awkward, of having Sherlock sleeping beside him.

After breakfast, Sherlock spoke with the owners and John took a walk around the little town, meeting Sherlock by the front door a while later. Sherlock didn’t stop walking as he left the house, just turned up his collar against the wind chill and marched on, calling back over his shoulder as John stood there watching him. “Perfect day for a stroll, don’t you think?”

John gave a last longing look back to the cosy cottage where he could see the flickering flames of the fire, but he shook his head and followed after his friend who was already heading down the path to the steep drop leading to the beach.

“Sherlock,” John called, catching him up. “Are we finished here? Or did you find another clue?”

“A clue?” Sherlock asked, studying the sea and not looking back to John.

“About... the trees...” John trailed off. “Sherlock, are you ok? You don’t normally take strolls along the cliffs.”

“I’m not normally able to.”

John had to concede that point.

They walked down to the pebble beach in silence, the wind whipping at their clothes, Sherlock’s scarf whipping around his ears. He didn’t seem bothered though, in fact he seemed to John thoroughly distracted, and not in his normal distracted way. He just wasn’t himself at all. John wasn’t sure why but it wasn’t bothering him like it should. He was curious but he was also enjoying this trip. They were in the fresh air, the case wasn’t anything sinister, so far at least, and they had slept in the same bed last night. John had no complaints.

He watched as Sherlock kicked at the pebbles at his feet a little before bending down to retrieve something. After a moment studying the pebble Sherlock tossed it over to John who deftly caught it in his left hand.

“Fossil,” Sherlock said, as John looked down at his hand.

“How can you tell?” John asked, turning the round stone over and over.

Sherlock ignored the question. “You should try and crack it open.”

John looked around briefly for a sharp looking rock but gave up quickly, holding it in his palm and following as Sherlock moved off across the stones. The waves were washing up in a cold spray to their left as they crunched their way along. John had to admit it was beautiful, albeit chilly. He looked around his feet as he followed slightly aimlessly behind his friend.

“You know, I can really see myself retiring to somewhere like this,” Sherlock said.

John barked out a laugh and Sherlock turned with a wide-eyed glare, John quickly composed his features. “Sorry, uh, retire? You? Sherlock, come on, be serious. When you retire the world will have become so boring that not even this place would be enough to distract you.”

Sherlock grunted and stayed quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again John had to catch up to him to hear his words above the wind and water. “It’s not so much the location. I thought you of all people would care more about the company one had in life. Surely it doesn’t matter so much where you are, but rather whom you choose to spend it with?”

“But you choose to be alone. You’re suddenly thinking about changing that?”

“I’m not alone, John, I never get a moment to myself these days.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer if I went back to the hotel? Or better than that back home?”

Sherlock turned back to him, frowning. “No, of course not, what’s got into you?”

John shrugged and looked out towards the ocean. He was suddenly furious, without good reason, but knowing that didn’t help. It was completely unnerving not knowing what Sherlock was planning for himself, and John didn’t like it. He didn’t want to hear about his friend’s plans for the future. If this was all he could have then he didn’t want to think about it ever coming to an end. He did not want it to end.

“Can we change the subject?” he murmured through gritted teeth, and Sherlock nodded, gesturing for John to lead on.

“Oh-” John missed his footing and stumbled letting the stone fall from his hand. As he looked down to it he saw two halves of the pale grey rock, cracked open to reveal an intricate fossil inside. John crouched down and picked it up. “Oh, look at this, it’s perfect. Sherlock - look at this, it’s a complete creature!”

“A complete creature?” Sherlock said scathingly over his shoulder as he plucked it from John’s hand. “John, this is a fine example of _Androgynoceras lataecosta.”_

“Costa what?”

“It’s a common ammonite John, I thought you knew things?”

“Apparently not,” John mumbled, taking back his fossil. “How did you know, are you a secret fossil hunter? A geologist to add your skills.”

“It just had that look about it. It doesn’t take a lot to see inside things. I think I remember you saying once that I was, what was it now, ‘fantastic’? This is pretty basic stuff.” 

John kind of wanted to punch him but he shoved his hands and his stone into his pocket, fighting a smile, and he nodded at his friend to keep walking. This was certainly turning into an unusual day out for him.


	5. Chapter 5

Alnwick Castle, Northumberland

It was snowing. A lot. John stood at the window of yet another quaint hotel room and watched as the flakes collected on the window ledge outside. It was looking rather white out there already and actually John had been hoping for snow so that they could maybe stay another night. He had rather enjoyed this trip. John hadn’t been to Northumberland in years and he had actually been excited to show Sherlock around and discuss the history of his regiment. Sherlock had seemed intrigued, asking questions that sounded like he really was interested in John’s past, rather than knowing it already because of the colour of his shoes.

He was still thinking about the soft look in Sherlock’s eyes as he read out the regimental motto inscribed in the stone archway leading through to the barracks. _Quo Fata Vocant_.

_“‘Whither the Fates Call’,” Sherlock translated as John watched him intently._

_“Hmm,” John replied. “I always thought it quite appropriate. I joined up with someone who saved my life more than once, and I never really believed in fate before that. He was a good man.”_

_“And now?” Sherlock asked. “With all that’s happened since, do you still believe in fate, John?”_

_“I think, yes, I think it still has some meaning,” John murmured._

_“Why do you think Mike Stamford introduced us that day?” Sherlock asked, still looking up into the archway._

_“Because he knew just how much you’d annoy me and keep me on my toes?”_

_Sherlock looked down at him and John grinned._

“It’s cold,” Sherlock said in the dim light of their room, bringing John back to the fact that it was snowing, heavily, in the middle of the night and they had little to no chance of leaving here in the morning.

“Snow,” he told Sherlock flatly.

“Oh.”

John turned around and saw Sherlock on the bed, leaning up on his elbows, sheet pooled around his stomach, naked shoulders and chest exposed to the chill of the room. He took a moment to consider what he should do. He was ok when his friend was asleep, sort of ok. He was just about able to drift off if he knew one of them was safely on top of the bedcovers, or fully dressed. Or if Sherlock was already asleep that seemed to help. John could try to pretend that he wasn’t actually there. Or that John wasn’t really there and that he wasn’t actually holding himself back constantly from reaching out and laying a hand against the light rise and fall of his friend’s chest as he took gentle, calm breaths in and out.

But Sherlock was just staring at him now, didn’t look as if he was going back to sleep. So John sat at the desk by the window and looked back out at the increasingly white exterior. The Landrover was half covered now.

“We probably should have picked a different spot, it is a little northerly for December,” John said, trying in vain to change his thoughts away from Sherlock.

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked, his voice husky and sleepy.

“3am. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“What are you doing up?” Sherlock asked, continuing to ignore everything John said.

“The snow woke me.”

“The silent snow?” Sherlock rubbed at his face.

“Yep, I have super hearing.”

“How much is there?” Sherlock asked, and John very quickly turned back to the window to avoid looking as Sherlock climbed out of the bed. John never knew how many clothes he would have on under a bed sheet, and at this stage he did not want to find out.

A vision in white appeared beside him out of the corner of his eye and John risked a look towards their feet, glad to see that Sherlock had wrapped himself in the bed sheet. He made a mental note to buy his friend some Christmas pyjamas so he didn’t have to do this again.

“Oh, that’s rather a lot,” Sherlock noticed, as they both watched the flakes fall.

“Mmhmm.” He looked over and found Sherlock looking back at him, smiling, eyes twinkling in the orange glow from the street lamps outside. “What?”

“Shall we get dressed?” Sherlock said, and John found his own smile forming as he nodded slowly and watched as Sherlock dashed over to his clothes and began pulling them on.

John pulled on his jeans and boots and grabbed his jacket, waited until Sherlock had wrapped his scarf around himself then walked over to the door with a tilt of his head. “Come on then.”

They tiptoed down the stairs and out into the falling snow and freezing night air, the snowy ground crunched under their feet. Almost half a foot had fallen already and they made fresh prints as they walked along. John had missed snow, during his time overseas. It was one of many things he sometimes thought of but really, such a connection to his childhood and many winters spent making snowmen and having snowball fights with neighbouring kids, he just had really fond memories and good feelings about it. He wanted to hold Sherlock’s hand. He really wanted to. So he slowed down and started to walk in his friend’s footsteps instead of making his own. Better this way. Safer.

After a moment came the question, “What are you doing back there, John?”

John watched his feet and thought about it. “Keeping out of the wind chill,” he lied.

Sherlock stopped and spun around and John stopped short before he could walk into him. “Come on, John, live a little, this is fun!”

“Sherlock, what is going on with you?”

“What?” Sherlock gestured around them with sweeping arms. “This is beautiful John, being out here, snow falling around us, fresh air - let’s embrace it!”

“Oh God,” John said, and he shook his head, just staring now, looking back to where they’d come from, wondering if he should actually try to get them back there before Sherlock lost it. “Um, do you think you actually need some more sleep?”

Sherlock laughed. He bent down and scooped up a handful of fluffy white snow and rounded it into a ball in his gloved palms. John watched until he realised what his friend had in mind and then he turned and ran, took a few faltering strides and slipped just as the snowball hit him on the back of the head. He landed on his arse and could only hear more laughter as Sherlock came up behind him and slid his hands under John’s armpits. He allowed Sherlock to help him back onto his feet as he continued to chuckle and apologise. John was laughing too by the time they let each other go and he brushed himself off before leaning down to gather his own snowball. Sherlock did the same and they both backed away from each other, grinning and feinting, snowballs in hand.

John was the first to aim this time but Sherlock was quicker and John got a face-full just before he threw his own. Sherlock ducked easily and John cursed him with a laugh as he scooped up more snow. He was up to speed this time and quickly got two good hits to his friend, one in the chest and one on the side of the head where Sherlock turned away to avoid it. Sherlock held up his hands in surrender, snow dripping down his face, but just as John relaxed a little he felt a shower of cold against his own chest and called out in surprise. “Hey, I’m getting soaked here!”

“What happened to the thrill of the chase?”

“Ok, that’s it.” John scooped as much as he could hold in his arms and pelted after Sherlock as he raced the other way. When his friend stumbled John had him and chucked his armful over Sherlock’s head as he slipped over. Sherlock sat on the snowy ground laughing, shaking the white stuff from his hair and John was bent double trying to rein in his own laughter in the dead quiet street. He hadn’t had as much fun since they’d raced around the streets of London after that taxi. Thank God for Sherlock.

Resting one hand on his knee he offered the other to his friend and Sherlock took it after a moment, shaking out his scarf as John pulled him to his feet. They walked back to the hotel, still laughing quietly and wiping themselves down. “After you,” Sherlock told him, holding open the front door.

John smiled, shaking his head a little and went inside. He heard the soft click as Sherlock closed the door and followed him up the stairs. John opened the door to their room and pulled off his boots and soaking wet jacket and turned to see Sherlock leaning against the closed door.

“I feel more awake than ever,” Sherlock told him, eyes bright and dancing in the pre-dawn light of their room.

John’s smile faltered a little as he watched his friend. “Ok, well, it’s still the middle of the night, and I’m freezing, so...” He left his words hanging as Sherlock began to undress, still looking at him.

“You go ahead and sleep some more John,” Sherlock told him, stripping off his wet coat and scarf and tugging on the hem of his jumper. John watched for a moment too long and his breath caught as Sherlock pulled the thin fabric up his toned, slender stomach.

He swallowed and looked away. “Uh, yeah, yeah I think I’ll do that,” he muttered, as he pulled off his jeans and climbed into bed, removing his t-shirt once he was sitting and hurriedly shuffling down and burrowing into his pillow to avoid any more torture from across the room.

He listened to his friend’s movements until the room was quiet once more and finally he closed his eyes. A moment later they were wide open.

“John, you’re shivering.” And the bed beside him dipped a little as Sherlock lay down and put an arm around him, over the covers. John wanted to cry out, to push him away; he wanted to wrap himself around Sherlock and never let him go. He was shivering. Sherlock was warming him up. That’s all it was. After a while he managed to calm himself, steeled himself to whisper, “I’m ok, better.” His eyes were tight shut while Sherlock moved away. John knew he was still there on the bed, but he was far enough away that John could breathe again. This was going to kill him.

When he woke up again it was to the steady hum of the electric shower in the bathroom. John lay back on his pillows, exasperated and confused, running his hands through his hair in frustration. It could have been a dream, he thought for a moment, but then he glanced to the door where two pairs of wet boots sat side by side. He risked sitting up in bed and looked out of the window to see the sparkling white covering of snow all around. Not a dream. And they were most definitely stuck here for another night.

They somehow managed to spend a relaxed day in the hotel, John updated his blog and Sherlock alternated reading with sitting by the window watching the snow, or more probably escaping to his mind palace. Neither mentioned their impromptu night time snow fun, or the subsequent almost-cuddling. John tried to forget it, another memory to shove as far back as he could.

That night Sherlock slept in the chair, despite John’s assurance that he could share the bed. He was on top of the bed covers when John stirred later in the night but up early and ready to leave by the time John woke in the morning, telling John that the snow had melted enough for them to leave.

The journey home was slow going but John had bought coffee at the local shop before they left but he struggled to persuade Sherlock to pull off the motorway for lunch.

“Must we, John? There can’t be a duller place on Earth than motorway services.”

“We’re not sightseeing,” John retorted, “I’m hungry.” Despite the exit coming up Sherlock didn’t stop, saying something about another storm coming in and hadn’t they better get closer to home before the snow? John grumbled but didn’t argue. He hated being a passenger sometimes. Sherlock drove another few miles until the traffic up ahead drew to a standstill. He looked sidelong at John who heaved out a sigh. “I told you we should have stopped back there. Now we’ll be stuck here for hours. And I’m hungry.”

John mostly talked to himself for the next thirty minutes as they crawled along the motorway, grumbling about the snow, roadworks, his empty stomach. Sherlock finally pulled off into the next service station and John climbed out gratefully, walking ahead and not even sure if Sherlock was following. After a moment he heard the soft footfalls as his friend came up alongside him.

“I still hate these places,” Sherlock said.

“I know. But I need Chicken Nuggets.”

“Really, John? You can’t think of anything less healthy?”

John glared and Sherlock smiled back. They queued again and John got his food, not able to persuade Sherlock to eat, but buying him a hot chocolate anyway and insisting he drank it. They sat in a booth on hard plastic seats and John happily munched while Sherlock pretended not to enjoy his drink. When John thought he had suffered enough he said, “Ok, I’m ready, we can get going.”

They used the bathrooms, Sherlock grumbling the whole time about hygiene, and John had to laugh at the way their grumpiness bounced back and forth.

When they got back on the road the traffic had cleared and they made better time. It was after dark when they eventually saw the lights of London, and it was wet and cold and miserable. John quickly went about making the flat as cosy as possible and then he found himself back in his own chair, over-thinking the entire trip once again and worrying about whether he should have tried to discuss any of it with his friend. Sherlock was back to business though. It was too late to go back now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little interlude before my final 2 chapters.

John was tired, bone weary and he wasn’t even sure why. He had told Sherlock he would rather sit out on the next trip he had planned and for some reason Sherlock had cancelled and stayed with him. They had both been quiet during the day, John had lounged around the flat, watching Sherlock as he worked. John made some soup just to occupy himself but then he really had no appetite. By the evening he was ready for bed but knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep right away so he decided to put on a film.

Sherlock was looking busy with something and John asked him a couple of times if he wanted to join him but there was no response. So John put on Mad Max and within a moment Sherlock was beside him on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, asking where the popcorn was.

John just stared at him for a while and watched his face change and light up as the film got going - his reactions made John want to watch him and not so much the film. He got up and went to the kitchen for popcorn so he could get a bit of distance. But as he turned away from the microwave he was instantly distracted by his friend, he stood watching for a long moment before Sherlock’s eyes moved to focus on John. John felt his cheeks heat and he gestured over his shoulder, awkwardly stepping backwards and mumbling apologies while he got the popcorn.

He rejoined Sherlock on the sofa, sitting at the far side, leaving plenty of space between them, safe space. After a couple of minutes Sherlock stretched over to the bowl of popcorn, and as John listened to the sounds of pleasurable crunching he also noticed that his friend stayed close. John had nowhere to move to so he sat still, tried to forget about what it meant to have his friend so close like this and tried to calm his racing heart.

They both had their feet up on the coffee table once the popcorn was finished, toes touching as they watched. John could not move, not at all - he could only stare at their feet and he grew warmer by the moment.

As soon as the film finished John awkwardly brought his legs down and made mumbled excuses about being tired before shuffling off to his bed. He was getting more and more frustrated by the day and Sherlock’s over-friendliness wasn’t helping. John could hardly object though since he had only ever wanted to get closer to his friend and a change was a good thing, wasn’t it? Regardless, he lay awake for a long time that night, trying to process whatever it was that had altered in their friendship.

John had drifted off, Sherlock’s face in his mind as it always was these days. And there was a soft knock at his bedroom door. His eyes flew open and he turned his head towards the door.

Sherlock stood there, dressing gown open to reveal his slender chest and lean stomach, only a pair of pyjama bottoms between them. John rubbed his eyes. He was so used to sharing a room with his friend over the past few weeks he almost thought he was back on one of their trips.

But apparently Sherlock was thinking the same since he ran a hand through his curls and said, “John, can I share with you tonight?”

“What? No!” was John’s immediate reaction, and he regretted it as soon as he’d said it. Sherlock’s tired expression didn’t change exactly but his shoulders slumped a little more.

“Why not?” he asked.

“You’ve got your own bed,” John told him.

“But I can’t sleep.”

“You never sleep anywhere. Stop it!” John cried, as Sherlock inched closer. John was wide awake now and more than a little uncomfortable as he found his head spinning and blood rushing to places he’d rather it didn’t.

“Your bed is comfier than mine. I won’t take up much room.”

John nearly gave in with his friend looking so forlorn, but this night was a welcome break from trying to keep his hands to himself while he slept. He had no choice. “No.”

“Oh, fine,” Sherlock said petulantly, and swept back out of the room.

John slumped back down onto his pillows. What the hell was going on?

When he woke up he knew he had dreamed of his friend all night, dreams so vivid he could almost believe they had spent the night together. Grumpy and confused, he really felt like he had missed something. Something was off with Sherlock but he was hardly shy, wouldn’t he just say something?

John knew he’d have to ask. He would have to pick his time carefully.


	7. Chapter 7

They studied the map laid out on the small table of the hotel room. John wanted to see where they had been, where they hadn’t. He still didn’t understand why the trees were being burned so randomly across the country.

“Here,” Sherlock said, indicating the centre point between four locations that he had marked around the map. But John was still looking at all the other markers.

“221b... that was the tree outside the house! We never investigated that one, I thought the council chopped it down.”

“I did it on my own, of course.”

“Right, because that one was too local for me, you only need me when we have to travel up and down the country.”

“They were all paid to burn them,” Sherlock told him, ignoring his grumpiness. “It’s always about money. It was just a message.”

“For you?”

“Yes, just attention seeking. But it worked to my advantage.”

“So wait, when did you work out the four important ones?

“Within a few minutes.”

“How?” John demanded, outraged that he was so far in the dark about all this. “And why did we only visit these ones?” He pointed to a couple of their road trip locations.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I threw in a couple of random ones to throw you off the trail,” he said.

“It worked.”

“Of course it did, you only ever think of others, John.”

“Do I?” John said, baffled.

“It was what was important to me, in the end. Whoever sent that message, they know what’s important to me.”

“But these are just random places, we only needed to go to these four... oh...” John put two and two together so suddenly he took a step back from the table. And then he couldn’t speak. What was important to him - that was what Sherlock had said. And those places were all connected to John.

“So why are we here?!” John demanded, finally letting the upset overtake the confusion. “Why did we have to go to all these places if you knew what was happening all along? And why are these bloody cases always about me?” he added, feeling stupid and talking through it.

“I thought you’d enjoy it, you needed a break.”

“Sherlock, you’ve been driving me insane with your plans, and your driving, and dragging me across the country, and...” he stopped abruptly, but it was too late.

“And what, John?”

John stood just shaking his head, glaring alternately at the floor and back at Sherlock. Sherlock could read him so well it was ridiculous. Unfortunately, John had never had the same skill. Was he really going to make John say it?

Sherlock drew closer, just a step but it forced John to take a deeper breath, got his heart pounding. 

“And what?” John repeated, as calmly as he could manage, but even he could hear the slight tremor to his words. 

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said slowly, voice lowered as he looked down into John’s face. “I want to know if I’m reading you right.”

“You’re never wrong,” John whispered.

“But it’s no fun if you don’t tell me yourself.”

John turned away in a huff, began to pace away. “This isn’t a game, Sherlock, this is... this is my life you’re playing with, you can’t just-” He felt a hand on his arm, and spun around again.

“I never said it was a game,” Sherlock told him.

“You never say _any_ thing, you never say how you feel, or about your past... how am I meant to-”

“What do you want to hear? That I’m not a serial dater like you?” John scowled at him but didn’t shift away for fear of losing his friend’s touch. “That I’ve never dated anyone? That I’ve dated women? Or that I’ve dated men?”

“Oh God, anything. All of the above.”

“Why does it matter?” Sherlock asked.

“Because I know nothing about you Sherlock, I don’t know what you want from life, you don’t seem to _need_ anyone. You keep me around for the novelty I’m sure, and I know you care about Mrs Hudson, you tolerate your brother of course, but that’s different.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t keep you around, John, I happen to know that we are friends.”

“Friends,” John said, finally stepping away, feeling the loss of Sherlock’s hand instantly. He nodded though and wrapped his arms around himself as he tried to stop from actually breaking down.

“Yes, we’re friends, John, I don’t have many of those, do you know me at all?”

“What... what were we just saying? No, Sherlock, weren’t you listening? Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all.” He knew he was being harsh, he needed to calm down, leave some space between them, some time. But Sherlock wasn’t moving and John didn’t have on his shoes. He couldn’t very well storm out in his socks.

“You know enough,” Sherlock said softly.

John rubbed both hands over his face in exasperation. “No, Mr Detective, I don’t! I love you. I _love_ you, you idiot. That’s all I know.”

After a moment of silence John risked looking up at Sherlock and found him standing close, gazing down to meet his eyes.

“Is that not enough?” Sherlock asked. “Is that not everything?”

John just couldn’t believe he’d finally said it. He hadn’t admitted that he liked Sherlock, hadn’t said that he fancied him or wanted to fuck him into next week even, he’d said words to his friend that he’d only ever said platonically before. He had never felt them so deeply as he did now. His heart was in Sherlock’s hands now and he had no idea what the man would do with it.

“Love is everything. Is that what you’re trying to say? All you need is love, and the rest will slot into place?”

“No, that doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

John waited. Stared up into those beautiful, slightly mismatched and perfect eyes and just shook his head in awe and despair. “Hmm. Ok,” he murmured, eyes narrowed and nodding when it looked like Sherlock was done. “Ok. I’ll just um... be in the bar.” He turned quickly away and managed to get to the door, grabbing his shoes on the way, without looking back. He didn’t want to see Sherlock still standing there or worse having moved away as if it really was all done.

He sat down at the bar and ordered a vodka, drank it down in one go and rested his elbows on the bar top.

“John, please, is this really necessary?”

John didn’t look around. He did sigh loudly and closed his eyes as he lowered his head. “All you had to say was, 'Will you kiss me',” he murmured.

“Will you kiss me?”

“No,” John told him, and went back to staring into his empty glass.

“Do you remember when we had that conversation about girlfriends, boyfriends?” Sherlock said, as if the little exchange hadn’t happened.

John wanted to pretend he had no memory of that. That he hadn’t immediately wanted to question Sherlock further on it, on the look Sherlock gave him when John asked about boyfriends. John saw that look in his dreams. At that moment he had _known_ it - that he wanted more from this man. He wanted to share everything with him and yet he knew that he would never be let in, that Sherlock surely didn’t have the desire to let him into his head. He would never want to clutter up his mind with John’s useless emotions. And so he had dated girls, not trying to make Sherlock jealous or even expecting him to notice at all. And while he’d been working through some things it helped a little, he had enjoyed himself.

“John?”

“Uh, yeah? Sorry...”

“You do remember, don’t you?”

John found himself nodding despite himself. “Yes, of course,” he admitted.

“You never asked me about that again. I said I was flattered, you just denied it all.”

“There was nothing to deny. Why should I have asked you about it?”

“I sometimes think about it. About what I could have said to you then, what I could say to you now.”

John looked up, frowning a little, suddenly feeling his palms growing damp and his heart racing. He tried to say something, to get Sherlock to say more but his throat was dry. Sherlock nodded to the barman and ordered another shot for John, and some water. John took the water and sipped at it.

Sherlock had remained quiet, just watching. Finally, he sat down on the adjacent stool and turned towards John. “I wanted us to travel because I wanted to show you I can do fun. I can try normal.” 

“I don’t want normal. I want crazy, whirlwind Sherlock who drives me completely mad.” 

“Were the fun things not good?”

“I loved every minute you idiot.” They watched each other while John drank his water.

“I wanted us to have some time. I wanted you to be sure,” Sherlock started up again.

“Me? Sure about what?”

“Sure that you want me, like this.” Sherlock swept both hands down his front. “This is what I am John, there’s no settling down and happy families here. There’s me - talking to myself, not talking at all, disappearing. I _am_ married to my work.” John nodded his understanding. “But you are my work too.”

“What... ah... what does that even mean?” John was irritating himself with his less than sensible comments, but he couldn’t form anything more comprehensible.

“It means I’ve never felt as comfortable with the idea of being close with someone, as I do with you.”

“Oh, God,” John let out in a soft whisper. He still wasn’t quite sure if they were on the same page here or even close to it, but that was... “Wow.” That was good.

“Wow,” Sherlock repeated, expressionlessly. “Does that mean you’re accepting what I’m telling you?”

“Accepting? Sherlock,” John finally found his voice. “At this point I’ll take anything from you. You want to sit here and drink with me? Fine. You want to go for a walk and hold hands? God yes. You want to go back to the room with me and finish this? I’m dying here, Sherlock. I need some direction.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, immediately. “Yes, to all of the above.”

John just blinked at him. Then he picked up his glass, knocked back the second shot and stood up. “Ok then.” He held out his hand.

Sherlock looked for only a moment before linking their hands together and standing up. “After you, John,” he said.

John tugged a little as he walked them to the front hall. From there they could easily go for that walk, the front door was right there. But they could just as easily go up the stairs opposite. With a glance at his friend, so close only at arm’s length, he stepped towards the foot of the stairs. Sherlock followed without a word.


	8. Chapter 8

Once back in the room John felt the nerves creep over him. “So, what now?” he asked.

“Well, I am a little tired,” Sherlock said, straight-faced.

Right. Of course. So this was still just yet another game to him. John’s feelings must have been evident by his expression because Sherlock stepped up to him, put a hand on each shoulder and smiled down at him.

“John,” he said softly. “I am joking.”

“Joking? Sherlock, what’s got into you?”

“Let’s just, go to bed... see what happens?”

“Yes, ok, great, yes.” Shit. This was really happening? John turned around, dislodging his friend’s hands, to lock the door and turn down the dimmer switch on the main lights. His hands were shaking a little as he turned back and reached for his cardigan buttons.

Sherlock stopped John’s hands with his own and whispered, “Let me?”

John let his hands fall and felt his chest begin to heave slightly as Sherlock began to unfasten buttons. He was going to need to sit down any second. A moment later Sherlock’s hands slipped onto John’s shoulders, under the cardigan, and brushed down his arms, letting it fall to the floor.

He started on his scarf and John shook himself, trying to get himself together. He waited for Sherlock to loosen the scarf and slide it from his neck then turned him around gently by the shoulders and removed his overcoat because it was Sherlock’s _coat_. John hung it over the back of the chair, as Sherlock turned back to him.

They reached for each other’s shirt buttons and worked their way down, chuckling when their hands became entwined and they had to cross over.

“Sherlock, do you ever find time for... um... pleasure? I mean for yourself?” John’s cheeks were warm, embarrassed to have voiced his thoughts.

“Are you trying to ask if I masturbate, John?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Just as you do,” he whispered.

John gasped as Sherlock’s thumb caressed the side of his cheek.

“I couldn’t tear my eyes away,” Sherlock admitted and John’s eyes widened but he couldn’t say anything. “I thought of it for days.”

John couldn’t bring himself to be angry or upset that Sherlock had watched him having a wank, when they were both half-naked and Sherlock was touching him.

“John,” Sherlock let out in a whisper, his fingers gliding gently over John’s shoulder under the soft fabric of his shirt. He gripped lightly at John’s biceps and let the shirt fall away as his eyes travelled the length of John’s torso. John knew what he could see, he still found himself doing the same sometimes after a shower if he was feeling reminiscent. But Sherlock breathed in sharply and sighed back out the word ‘beautiful’, and John just stared blankly at him until Sherlock met his eyes and smiled. “I’ve not seen you so close before,” he whispered.

“Oh,” John said, not understanding any of this.

But he did know that soon he was going to want to kiss his friend so badly he was going to struggle to hold back.

“Sherlock... please,” he finally whispered, completely out of his comfort zone now. He had never let himself feel this vulnerable with another person, not with a friend or new lover. And they hadn’t even kissed yet. Would they even get that far? He had no idea, but he needed to find out. His hands moved reflexively and he pushed the shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders, not trusting himself to let his fingers linger just yet. Sherlock’s eyes never left his face, he was sure of it, and John peered back up into his eyes with wonder. For some reason John’s sense of propriety still wouldn’t allow for him to just drop any of his friend’s clothes to the floor and he caught the shirt before it fell, placing it over the coat on the chair. Sherlock was smiling now. “What?” John asked.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, eyes dancing. “Shall we carry on?”

John nodded fervently, and his hands went to his belt as he watched Sherlock do the same. Soon they were standing in their underwear and staring at each other. The bed did look really comfy this time. John was long since used to the one bed situation, only this time he was nervous because they might just be about to do more than sleep awkwardly beside each other.

Sherlock reached for John’s hand and stepped backwards to the bed, sitting down when he could, and John sat beside him, following his friend’s lead and they lay back on the soft pillows. They rolled to their sides until they were facing each other.

“How long, John?” Sherlock murmured. “Have you wanted this for as long as I have?” he whispered, and John shivered.

“It’s been a while,” John admitted softly, and John reached out to touch tentative fingertips to Sherlock’s cheek, caressing his soft skin and marvelling at how young the other man always looked. Close up like this he seemed even more innocent and John found himself struggling all over again. “Sherlock,” he said, slowly taking back his hand. “You have to tell me... if you’ve ever... with anyone,” he tailed off, completely unable to say anything more.

Sherlock blinked but then caught John’s hand up in both of his. “Never with a man. Is that what you wanted to know, John?”

“Yes, yes, that’s good. I mean, good because... neither have I. With a man, I mean. Because I have slept with women, some, I mean not many...”

Sherlock’s finger pressed gently against John’s lips and he smiled. “We don’t need to talk about that.”

“Mm-kay,” John’s muffled voice managed. “Sorry,” he added, as Sherlock’s finger slipped away. “So, what should we do?” he whispered. “Have you thought about it?”

“You’ve been distracting me since we met. I’ve thought of little else for weeks. I need you, John. I’m not whole without you, don’t you see?”

They were so close John could easily make out Sherlock’s long eyelashes and his dilating pupils. He could barely take in what his friend was telling him. He wanted to touch again, to kiss those lashes. He had dreamed of it so often.

He could well imagine the mechanics of what they could do. That didn’t mean he was ready to do them. Or ready to talk about it either. But kissing – kissing he could do. He moved a little closer, his breathing becoming shallow at just the thought of it. His eyes focused on Sherlock’s lips now - plump, a little shiny from where his tongue slid out to lick briefly as John edged closer. And then they were touching, soft lips brushing together and sticking ever so slightly as John paused to lick his own lips. He half expected Sherlock to pull away, but he felt a warm hand curl around the back of his neck and ease their mouths into a more serious kiss.

John had kissed several women in his time. He’d had plenty of smooches planted on him by inebriated mates back in the day. But this kiss... this was something else. He felt the press of Sherlock’s lips and tongue against his own through his whole body - it made his head spin and his palms sweaty and his heart thudded as he pressed his hand to Sherlock’s chest, feeling his heart thumping against his ribs. Sherlock still clutched his other hand and eventually they both pulled back at the same time and John just laughed - let out a ridiculously badly timed chuckle and watched Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Sorry,” John said, rolling onto his back, hands to his heated face as he took a deep breath and then looked back to his friend. “I’m so sorry, oh God, I can’t stop smiling.” He felt like an idiot until Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling until John was on his side and facing him again.

“More,” Sherlock said, and there was a smile at the corners of his mouth as he came in for another kiss. John pulled him close, arms slipping around him and hugging him - skin on skin, their chests were touching and John was doing a poor job of avoiding Sherlock’s groin area with his own. And as soon as he realised that fact he couldn’t even think. This time when their lips parted Sherlock was smiling at him as John tried to move his lower half away slightly, not wanting to make it look as if he thought this was a sure thing. He wasn’t sure about anything other than his extreme hard-on which had just bumped against his best friend’s hard-on through their underwear. Sherlock was turned on, he’d said ‘more’ and John wanted it too.

But even as Sherlock nudged his hips forward a little John eased back. “Wait, Sherlock...” John gasped against his lips, and then he was looking into eyes filled with mischief and before he knew it they were both giggling. John couldn’t stop, not until he felt his friend’s lips on his again and then he let his arms snake around Sherlock’s back and held him close, this time somehow ignoring the press of their groins - this wasn’t the time and they both seemed to know that, despite their bodies’ physical signs. They were still grinning at each other as they came up for air again.

“Would you like me to put some more clothes on, John? Or I can let you have the bed by yourself.”

“What? No, neither of those. Stay Sherlock, please?” John implored. They had finally got this close he couldn’t bear it if Sherlock left him now. He tightened his grip slightly but then let go, bringing his arms back to his own side and leaving Sherlock with the space to decide.

Sherlock shook his head a little. “I’m not going anywhere John, not if you want me here.”

“Yes, yes I do. I do,” John assured him. He reached cautious fingers out again and their mouths came together again as John’s fingers slid into Sherlock’s thick, luscious curls. Their kisses were tender, new and completely surprising. Eventually they began to drift off, heads beside each other on one pillow, lips close and just breathing gently. Sherlock caressed John’s shoulder with a thumb as John closed his eyes.

***

John’s dreams were vivid, he stirred a little through the night, felt the warmth beside him, didn’t dare open his eyes in case he’d dreamed the kissing part and they were both actually fully dressed with Sherlock on top of the covers. Once he woke up, eyes wide to see Sherlock’s sleeping face beside his own and he nearly shoved away in alarm. He managed to stay still and got his breathing to calm while he focused on Sherlock’s beautifully peaceful face.

Then he was half asleep - half awake and his hand was in his pants and he was rock hard. He also couldn’t keep still and after a moment of struggle to still himself he felt Sherlock move beside him.

“John, are you awake?” Sherlock whispered.

“Not sure.”

“You were restless.”

“You’ve been awake?”

“On and off. Can I try something?” 

“Uh...” John risked opening one eye and peered into Sherlock’s face in the darkness. He cleared his suddenly very dry throat. “Yeah.”

Light fingers trailed their way from John’s chest to his stomach and didn't stop - the grip on his cock through his underwear was firm. After a moment in which John found himself completely unable to move, Sherlock slipped his hand inside John’s waistband and touched skin and John couldn’t have cared whether Sherlock had watched him sleep all night long. When he felt that first touch of Sherlock’s hand on him and with the sharp gasp that they both made, he nearly lost it.

He gave a couple of tugs of himself before letting go and covering Sherlock’s hand with his own and together they started a rhythm. Sherlock shifted across the bed a little, bringing them closer and John turned to face him more.

He managed to keep himself under control and he had to ask his own question. “Can I touch you?” he breathed, desperate and needy.

“Yes.” Sherlock murmured, no hesitation there.

John moved his own hand, desperately trying to keep it steady as he slipped it into Sherlock’s underwear and wrapped his fingers around his friend’s cock. “Is this ok?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, already sounding half delirious to John’s ears.

 _Come on._ He knew exactly what to do with himself, he could figure out something similar with his best friend, surely? Sherlock stroked slowly along his length and John closed his eyes, all thoughts and coordination gone. Sherlock’s lips met his and he was kissed thoroughly, more adventurous than the night before as they began to relax into each other, and John’s fingers slid up and down Sherlock’s cock and gently squeezed as he felt the size relative to his own. Silky soft skin and solid flesh, he had to bite his lip.

Sherlock groaned into his mouth which almost made John come right then. But he took a breath and opened his eyes a little to make sure Sherlock was happy. He nodded approval and nudged at John’s hand with a roll of his hips. Ok, so this was good then. John reached around with his other hand and clutched at Sherlock’s round arse, moaning through the pleasure of the perfect handful. Oh God, what he wanted to do to those cheeks. But they needed to talk about that. He had no idea what was really happening here, let alone what Sherlock was feeling. But Sherlock’s palm mirrored John’s moves and he had his free hand clutching John’s arse, and as he pulled their bodies even closer John was in danger of spilling all over him before they’d even really got started.

Sherlock’s palm was warm around John’s cock and John nuzzled his face into his friend’s neck as he grasped at Sherlock’s cock and tried to keep a similar rhythm going. Sherlock was breathing heavily, probably in the most flustered state John had ever seen him - even in his dreams Sherlock was composed and not like this at all. John was coming apart but it was ok... it kind of felt like Sherlock was too and John was not ready to start questioning anything. He wanted kisses... more kisses and he raised his head, brought his fingers up to Sherlock’s cheek. The kisses they shared now were more intense than before. Sherlock’s tongue met John’s instantly and they pressed together, John pulled Sherlock’s tongue between his lips and sucked on it, nipped at his lips and practically shoved him onto his back, raising his hips so their hands could continue and it was only seconds more before John was coming, pushing himself into Sherlock’s fist and somehow keeping up the pace with his own hand until he felt Sherlock’s cock pulsing as he started to come as well. And _oh God, yes_ his face when he fully let go - head thrown back, neck bared, lips parted as he shoved up against John’s eager hand and body. John didn’t want it to end, he had never seen anything this beautiful.

Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes and they were laughing, foreheads pressed together as they giggled into each other’s mouths, sharing final gentle kisses while they tried to recover.

“Sherlock,” John murmured. “What have we done?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock whispered. “But let’s do it again.”

John nodded and had no desire to resist as he was pushed gently onto his back and Sherlock moved on top of him, resting up on his elbows. “John, why did this take so long?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” John said, without hesitation, but he smiled widely at his friend’s scowl. He slid his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and tugged him down for a kiss.

When they parted, Sherlock opened his eyes and John couldn’t look away. “There’s always two of us,” Sherlock told him.

“So I’m an idiot too, that’s what you’re saying?” Sherlock nodded intently, and John laughed. “Don’t let me forget it then, ok?” John asked gently, hands clasped together at Sherlock’s lower back.

“I promise.” He leaned in and their lips touched again, John’s hands slid up Sherlock’s sleekly muscled back and gripped at his shoulders as the kiss grew more intense. He could do this all day, Sherlock’s weight pressing him into the mattress, just the perfect amount to make John feel both secure and extremely turned on. If they left this bed over the next four days, he would be very surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. I'm so relieved and happy to have posted this. It's actually been mostly completed for a few weeks but for some reason I just couldn't finish it. Obviously I'm a few years behind everyone else, I only discovered Sherlock a few months ago. Instant obsession. I can't even explain, it's all consuming and I've just wanted to write them constantly. But thank you all so much for your kudos and comments because I really didn't know what was going to happen.


End file.
